Chapter Fifty-Six: The Allure of That Gunshot

Over a thousand hook-bladed spears stood like a forest, yet this mobile formation of hooked weapons resembled some primordial beast, its gaping maw devouring all living things before it.

A Qiang battalion of a thousand surged forward, but they could not hold for even the time it takes an incense stick to burn. In the blink of an eye, the sharp hooks pierced hearts, tore off heads, or slit throats.

Without hesitation, over two thousand rebel troops pressed forward in waves. The scene that unfolded was stupefying: this seemingly unremarkable formation of hook-bladed spears, like a ravenous glutton, showed no sign of faltering as more rebels threw themselves against it.

Shocking. Truly, it was utterly shocking.

In barely a quarter of an hour, over three thousand rebel soldiers fell before the lines of the Second Merit Office. What did this mean? Such efficient slaughter could only be seen in wars fought with firearms; the carnage surpassed even that of the meat grinder at Verdun.

At this moment, not only was Pang Qidi shaken to his core, but even Chen Ying stood in stunned disbelief. He had never anticipated the tremendous might of this hook-bladed spear formation.

Chen Ying had rushed to the field with a unit made up of eighty percent raw recruits—soldiers he had no time to drill properly. During three days of forced march, he had managed to teach them only a single move: thrust the spear straight, then hook back with a reverse grip.

Even though the recruits had mastered this single technique, Chen Ying still feared they would panic and flee at the sight of blood. Thus, when deploying his troops, he placed a squad of veteran officers armed with broadswords in front of the spear formation. Ostensibly, the longer reach would make them stronger, with the hook-bladed spearmen at the fore. In reality, the veterans were there to supervise the recruits.

He had first placed his veterans in the front as a gamble, hoping to test Pang Qidi’s nerve. But Pang Qidi hadn’t hesitated for a moment and ordered an immediate attack. Had Chen Ying not altered his tactics, once the front-row veterans fell to the rebels, his remaining thousand recruits would surely have collapsed.

It was thanks to Wei Wenzhong’s reminder that he adjusted his deployment. The veterans served as a field police: anyone who dared retreat without orders would face their swift discipline.

When the first battalion of Qiang wolf soldiers charged, many recruits fought through tears, their legs twisted in terror, eyes squeezed shut as they thrust their spears blindly. Only when they realized these ferocious Qiang warriors never reached their line—collapsing instead, clutching spurting throats or clutching chests with wild, dying screams—did they discover how easy it could be to kill the enemy.

The new soldiers of the Second Merit Office were astonished at their own prowess, and their morale soared. They gripped their hooked spears more steadily, their thrusts and withdrawals growing ever more forceful.

Pang Qidi’s eyes turned bloodshot; he roared like a beast, “May the god of Kunlun protect us—kill every Tang dog!”

“May the god of Kunlun protect us—kill every Tang dog!” his men echoed.

The narrow mountain path played entirely to the Second Merit Office’s advantage. There was no need to fear a flanking attack; all attention could be focused on the enemy before them. Crucially, despite Pang Qidi commanding over forty thousand men, the confined terrain prevented him from leveraging the strength of numbers.

Seeing this, Wei Wenzhong’s grin stretched all the way to his ears.

“General Chen is a true genius! A formation like this is unrivaled beneath the heavens!”

Chen Ying smirked, unmoved by the praise. Only now did his heart settle back into his chest. The truth was, this formation was not his own invention, but inspired by the Polish Winged Hussars of over eight centuries in the future. Chen Ying had once stumbled upon their glorious deeds on a military forum; this legendary cavalry defeated Cossacks, Teutonic Knights, and even the famed Mongol horsemen.

Military enthusiasts summarized the Winged Hussars’ keys to victory in three points: discipline, equipment, and tactics. They were the first in the world to employ the concept of a dense cavalry formation. Chen Ying saw an opportunity to adapt these ideas. Of course, he had no cavalry of his own—his only mounted unit of two hundred was useless in the cramped terrain of Shizhou. Yet, as a military amateur, he boldly transplanted the cavalry’s dense formation tactics to his infantry.

He arrayed over a thousand hook-bladed spearmen in a tight block—shoulder to shoulder, practically fused together, unable even to turn. They could only surge ahead as a single mass.

In this compact formation, three to four times as many troops could fit in a given area compared to a standard spear phalanx, meaning each enemy faced three or four spears at once. No matter how they dodged, one or several spears would strike home.

On the battlefield, one sound slowly drowned out all others.

A chilling hiss—the sound of Pang Qidi’s terror—spread among the rebel troops, infecting them with dread. In unison, the rebel soldiers began to edge backward.

Mo Dake, standing by Pang Qidi’s side, looked anxiously at Chen Ying in the center of the Tang ranks, sweat beading his brow.

Chen Ying drew his broadsword and gave a gentle forward sweep.

The soldiers of the Second Merit Office, victorious in their first engagement and elated beyond measure, especially the new recruits, found the rebels almost comically foolish—standing still, waiting to be butchered.

If only the rebels knew what these recruits thought, they might have died on the spot out of sheer frustration. They were neither foolish nor slow. Three or four spears thrust at once left no room to dodge, no way to retreat.

“Kill!”

Over a thousand hook-bladed spearmen took a step forward in perfect unison.

And the rebel army, over forty thousand strong, fell back in panic.

Despair welled up in the rebels’ hearts, including Pang Qidi himself.

Despair—that was the only word.

In a life-or-death struggle, these rebels, who made their living on the knife’s edge, would normally have accepted death long ago. Even against the Tang’s elite, they could at least trade lives—ten of theirs for one of the enemy, and eventually wear Chen Ying’s forces down.

Yet Chen Ying’s men seemed divinely aided: after a quarter-hour of brutal combat, their casualties were still in single digits.

To be beaten without any chance to strike back—this was the most demoralizing fate.

Pang Qidi, driven to desperation, drew his warblade and swung it in a wide arc at the neck of a Tibetan chieftain. The man’s ruddy face tumbled to the ground like a ball.

Pang Qidi plunged the blade into the earth, half its length buried in the road.

“Any who pass this blade—die!”

Thousands of Qiang wolf soldiers beside Mo Dake roared as one, “Any who pass this blade—die!”

The Tibetan warriors, bandits, robbers, sand thieves, and local ruffians all hung their heads in utter dejection.

“Fight! Fight the Han dogs to the end!”

“Kill every last Han dog! May the god of Kunlun protect us!”

“If we’re doomed either way, we might as well fight!”

Chen Ying, seeing this, remained unruffled and shouted, “Brothers, are you tired?”

“Not dead yet!” Zhang Huaiwei spat blood-flecked phlegm and replied, “Not dead yet!”

Chen Ying shouted again, “Are you afraid?”

“To hell with them! We’ll chase them into their own trousers if we have to!”

Chen Ying roared, “Kill every last rebel!”

“Kill every last rebel!” his troops echoed.

Just as Chen Ying led his troops to charge, suddenly, one of the hook-bladed spearmen at the front swung his blood-dripping weapon toward Chen Ying. By the time Chen Ying realized, there was no time to dodge.